Tap, Tap, Tap in the Classroom.

I’m standing in front a small group of learners in a classroom. By my side, a stretched canvas board is perched on an easel. I have a paint brush on my right hand and a palette of paint on the other. These children are about to start a painting exercise on understanding the use of arbitrary colour. And here I’m about to demonstrate a few techniques. They sure seem very interested. Captivated, in fact. Some are smiling in throbbing anticipation.

"Remember," I say to the class. "When you mix your colours, avoid..."

A hand flies in the air. A girl on the front table. One of the smart ones. Plaited hair with a small butterfly clip on the side. Slacks and a buttoned blazer. Neat as a pin. Almost immediately, I know what it’s going to be. How can a donkey be green and trees blue? They’ve always asked that, smart ones like her. It conflicts with nature and defies logic I know, I’ve always said. But in art, everything is logic, and art is nature in itself. Most of them had been convinced. Now I hope this one will be convinced. And so, I nod a please-go-on-and-ask nod.

"Sir," she says, a little smile twitching on her lips. "Please pardon me, but I don’t intend to divert you. We always read and hear that you write and tell stories. Can you please tell us a story? A brief one, Sir, please?"

Honestly, I’m taken aback. For a moment I’m lost of words. Surely this is not a literature class. "Okay look," I say to her, trying not to smile, though unsuccessfully. "That’s true. I write and tell stories. But I also paint stories. So here today we’ll all be painting our stories. Painting is a very..."

"No Sir," she shakes her head stubbornly. ‘We want to hear a story from you because..."

"When you say ‘we’ you are including everyone else. But it’s only you who wants a story told. Other learners want to paint now. Maybe we should..."

Suddenly all the hands in the classroom are straight up, like antennae searching for signal. Some are even raising both hands! "Now what?" I squint, trying to read their little faces, I mean, come on, I’ve studied child psychology. They all want a story, I reckon. They want to hear a story, period. They have me under siege. No story, no painting. I sigh in despair and put the brush and the palette on my desk.

"Okay, you win!" I say, throwing my hands in the air. They clap hands, these children, they clap hands.

"Once upon a time when I was your age," I start and the applause dies. "I wasn’t as smart as you are, of course, but that was the case with most of us, the youth of our generation. We had a different kind of smart. An interesting kind of smart." There is a thick, tangible silence in the classroom. For the first time, I notice that one of the taps at the back sinks is leaking, as steady and slow drops hit the metal of the basin. Tap... tap... tap...

One boy shifts on his chair, making himself more comfortable. One props his chin on his palm, elbow pinned on the table, eyes gazing at me. "I was almost always top of my class with whistle clean straight A’s, particularly in my favourite subject, Art. I was simply unbeatable, and my classmates knew that. But one day," I wag my finger for effect. "A new boy – apparently transferred from another school – arrived in my Art class." I can feel their ears zooming in. They are thirsty for a story, I can tell by the concentration in their eyes. "He stopped on the doorway, his rucksack balancing on one shoulder. His eyes scanned the classroom. He was looking for something. Everyone was looking at him; olive dark skin with a cluster of pimples dotting his expressionless face. His eyes fell on mine. Then he lifted a finger and pointed at me. I looked behind me, thinking that perhaps he was pointing at something on the wall behind, but his eyes were focused squarely on mine. Then he spoke, loud enough for the entire class and the teacher to hear." I pause.

These children’s eyes are swimming with anticipation. Please go on, Sir, their eyes are pleading. Tap... tap... tap... I go on.

"Still looking at me, he said, ‘Kiss your superior excellence goodbye, sonny boy.’"

"Aaaah!" the children in my painting class exclaim. It’s a chorus that bounces on the walls of the classroom. I continue.

"That’s what they did too, my classmates. They aah-ed and ooh-ed, but not me, the victim of the humiliation. I was shocked. Who was this gutsy little boy with a raspy little voice? How dare he come threaten me in my territory? And worse, he just called me ‘sonny boy’. The pencil in my hand was shaking slightly, revealing that which will haunt me throughout my school days. I put the pencil on the table and stood up to face the daring boy. I didn’t look at the teacher, who was probably dazed as well. I didn’t look at my classmates either. I looked at the boy on the doorway. He did not know that I wasn’t only a master of art in my school. I was also a master weaver of words! I needed not think them out first. My words were always on the ready. And so I opened my mouth to let out a bombshell that was visibly vibrating on my lips..."

The children in my painting class are holding their breaths. Some mouths are slightly agape. Waiting. Waiting for the next line of the story. Waiting to hear what I said to the new boy in my Art class back in the days when I was their age. Will there be any painting exercise today? I wonder. Silence pulses in the classroom - an almost frightening silence punctuated by a steady dripping. Tap...tap...tap...